


i want to sit under my own vine

by noonlighted



Series: dream smp fics [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Dream SMP War, Dream Smp, Gen, L'Manberg War of Independence on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft, Pogtopia, l'manburg, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noonlighted/pseuds/noonlighted
Summary: depressing l'manberg oneshots! just some random sad shit about the characters of the dream smp. mainly wilbur, tommy and tubbo.
Series: dream smp fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055483
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	1. here she stands unwav'ring

One day, we’ll tell them. We’ll tell them of that strange and special place. The proud, dark walls. The river, with its avenue of spruce, where we used to catch fresh fish. Watching the last sparks of a late-night campfire drift up int the great expanse of sky. Still slightly battered, trust not quite restored. There were lasting scars from the war, both visible and not. I still have nights where I wake up in a cold sweat, sure that we’re about to be ambushed. For months I had dreams about buttons, and treacherous men in dark, glinting sunglasses.  
It took years to rebuild. I remember seeing the wreck of our town for the first time. It hadn’t truly sunk in, not until I had found my bed, snapped in half under the weight of a caved-in roof. Everything seemed hopeless then. Trees uprooted, great mounds of dirt sprayed across the walls. The fish had all died, and the river had turned to a brownish-red sludge.  
That night, we slept out in the open, lying together in the dwindling firelight. Nobody spoke. In a way, I was grateful for the silence. I don’t think any of us really knew what to say.  
All I could think was “ _What now_?”  
I had to stay strong for them, I knew. I could see the fear linger in their faces, eyes glazed from lack of sleep. I wanted to tell them that everything was going to be okay. That we could start again, make it better than before.  
But I couldn’t.  
I’m not religious, but I prayed that first night. I climbed the walls, sat on the ledge and looked up at the bitter and starless sky. I had no idea what I was doing. It felt like I was shouting into the void. Honestly, I felt even more useless than before, but I was desperate, Christ was I desperate.  
“Please, just tell me what to do,” I muttered. My face hurt from trying to keep it together.  
_Tell me how to keep them alive._  
The wind seemed to sing, that night on the parapet. A familiar tune, but with words I’d never heard before. 

_They hung their flag in red and blue  
They stood their ground here, proud and true  
They’re beaten down, yet still they cry L’Manberg_

_They can try and tear it down  
They can smash the walls and take your crown  
But here she stands unwav’ring, my L’Manberg_

I remember it, even now. The words were so sweet and soft and sad, and I somehow knew them already. I looked back to our town, our beautiful, ravaged town. My friends, sprawled around the dying fire- numbers depleted and a bit battered, but wondrous nonetheless.  
“We’ll be alright,” I murmured. “We’ll be alright.”


	2. a strange and savage routine

“I know you trust him, Tommy.”  
The wind is biting today.  
The younger boy stands at the peak of the hill, where wild daisies grow. He squints his eyes. His cheeks are pink with cold, and his nails dig bloody half-moons into his palms. The city- _his city_ , lies silent, the flag dancing a strange and savage routine in the wind.  
He strains his eyes, desperate to catch every last detail, to stain it in his mind. He is hurting, Wilbur can tell. He stands a couple feet behind, suddenly awkward. His uniform, once a mark of rebellion, feels ugly and out of place.  
“I can tell, ‘cos..he’s your Tubbo! Tubbox! Tubb in a box, remember that?” He tries to smile, but it feels wrong. _Come on, Wilbur_ , he thinks. _Pull yourself together._  
A tear runs down Tommy’s cheek.  
“Remember Tubbo in a box?”  
Tommy says nothing.  
The wind is all-consuming, as though it could whisk them away at any second, like _The Wizard of Oz_. Part of Wilbur prays that it would.  
Take us somewhere, anywhere away from this wretched place. Somewhere where we can start again. Where they won’t find us. Where we can live, no more war, no more blood, no more death.  
“ _Tommy? Tommy? Are you—Wilbur is he alive? Wilbur? Oh my God, there’s so much blood Wilbur. What do we do? Oh God. Tommy? Tommy? Hold on, please—are you awake? Please, Tommy, please wake up, Tommy please—_ ”  
He had placed an arm around the boy’s trembling body, guiding him gently away. He remembers Tommy’s body, pallid in the dark water. The way his blood had flowed from the wound in great purple ribbons. How his hands had floated limply, corpse-like, as he and Fundy had tried to lift him onto the bridge that he had fallen from. How Tubbo had sat at the water’s edge, crying uncontrollably. He'd wanted to reassure him, to seem like he had known what he was doing, that everything was going to be alright. But there was so much blood.  
It had clung to him, staining his cuffs and his shirt, running under his sleeves. They sat in silence afterwards, the three of them, washing the blood off their hands while Tommy lay half-dead on the bank, the arrow still sticking out of his chest.  
“Tommy?”  
He remembers how it ate at him. How, for a moment, he thought he was gone. How he cried, afterwards, when he knew no-one was watching. He has nightmares still, sometimes. He has to wake up and make sure that he’s still alive.  
“I remember,” Tommy says. His voice is like stone. “We’ve got to go.”  
The horizon stretches across the trees like a great red scar. Wilbur’s hand hovers over Tommy’s shoulder, but he’s already turned and left, resolute.  
Wilbur is left with the blazing sky and the screaming wind. The walls of the city seem higher than ever.  
_My L’Manberg_ , he thinks. _What happened?_


	3. somewhere only we know

A boy stands, solitary at the top of the stairway. The sun is well overhead. Rabbits pick their way over piles over piles of rotting wood and smashed glass. Black bricks litter the grass like ants on a green apple.

The crater of the explosion is so big it's hard to comprehend. The dynamite tore a small hole in the lake's border, and water has begun to pool at the bottom, thick and brown with mud.

He starts to hum- anything to distract himself from the gaping quiet, just something that's been going round his head. But it's a cruel song. My L'Manberg. (It's not so special anymore, is it?) There's that strange _deja vu_ feeling, like he's been here before. The silence. The emptiness. The glowing orange sparks still floating through the air.

Wilbur stands on the hill, in his old red and blue uniform. A boy stands behind him- _me_ , Tommy realises. Wilbur's voice is low and pleasant- he'd always been a good singer. He looks younger, though he knows it can't have been that long ago. He looks up at Wilbur earnestly, waiting for further instruction. He remembers that feeling. So sure that Wilbur was never wrong. (He would have trusted him with his life, then. He would have followed him into fire if he told him it wouldn't burn.) That's another thing that's new. He used to feel so certain that he was right, or good. Lost. That's how it is now. Just him, small and stupid and alone, not knowing where to turn. From here, he can see the room where it happened, torn in two with the force of the blast. Wilbur had shown it to him once, promised him that it was a last resort. He was so sure that it had been enough. That he had convinced him.

Fire still burns through the distant trees, smoke rising in a huge dark cloud above the crater.

"Wilbur," he mutters, "What have you done?"

The shock of the blast had sent great spears of dirt and water into the air. A flying rock had hit him on the side of his head, and he'd passed out soon after, waking to find the left side of his face wet with blood. His ears are still ringing now, a day later, sharp and painful.

The valley's in ruins, and he's not looking much better. Ruffles of the old shirt hang dirtied and grey, tears in the fabric showing his equally dirty grey skin. There's still a large brown stain below his heart where Dream's arrow had torn a great hole during the First War. Tubbo had offered to mend it many times. In part, Tommy knew, because he didn't want to remember that day. He'd been dead, at least for a couple of minutes, he was sure of it.

There were angels, all white and gold. They were singing to him.

Tell Wilbur I'm sorry, he told them. Tell them to carry on without me. But they ignored him, singing higher and higher, their voices rose to a blinding screech until everything went white. They had  
sent him back.

Red eyes and blotchy faces. Pathetic blue sky. Nightmares, months afterwards. Phantom pains, shaky breaths. Will's panicked solace - "You're alive, Tommy. You're alive. It's gonna be alright.". He wasn't always sure who Will was trying to reassure.

But that was so long ago now, and it seemed almost trivial compared to yesterday. Wilbur was dead. His brother was dead, and his father had killed him, and L'Manberg was gone.

The salmon have come back to the far stream, he notices, pink bodies darting and twisting and leaping. They'd all died in Dream's explosion, leaving the river red and empty. He picks up a stone- a good, flat one, and skims it over the surface. It skips once, twice, before sinking to the depths. He grimaces. Not his best. There are better stones right next to the river's edge, Will told him once. 

They used to skim stones together over this same lake months back, when the walls were still up and the air was full of life.

He crouches at the bank, running his hands through the greyish-blue stones, when something catches his eye. Red. It's a piece of fabric, held in place by the stones. The remainder of the flagpole lay across the grass, a great black pike of dark oak. Tommy had hoped to use it as firewood or something, but he could see now that it was soaked through. The fabric was a rough carmine cotton, and the outer edges were blackened and brittle. Small black flecks came away as he rubbed it with his thumb. He tucks it safely in his pocket. It might be the only part of the original flag that's left, after they burned it.

The new flag still stands, ugly and black over the wreckage. _Looks more like a shroud_ , he thinks. 

Pain shoots through his leg as he stands. Techno's withers left small, deep cuts all over his body. They had healed quickly, but had left his skin mottled with an odd purplish tinge, as though he were infected with some rare illness.

"You want to be a hero, Tommy?" He never did. Well, perhaps he did a little bit, in the same way everyone did. But he hadn't led the revolution to be a hero. He hadn't rebelled against Schlatt because he'd enjoyed it. And yes, of course he'd wanted to be President. Wilbur could tell. That's why he'd dangled it over his head like that, teasing him. "You'll never be President, Tommy."

And it was true. He was right. It was why he'd given the presidency to Tubbo. It had felt fake and wrong. He hadn't been expecting Tommy to give it away, he could tell. He had raised his eyebrows slightly, and smirked, watching Tommy from his seat at the back of the forum. Wilbur wanted to show him up. To let him make a fool of himself, let the country run itself into the ground and the citizens begged for the old President. Then he would saunter back, in his dark blue President's suit, a smirk on his face. And Tommy would give it back, and Wilbur would smile, and say I told you so,  
Tommyinnit. I told you so.

But Wilbur hadn't understood. He had never understood. Tommy had never wanted to be President, not really. Sure, he'd dreamt of having that kind of power from time to time, but it was just a fantasy, nothing more.

He had just wanted to reinstate Wilbur, to be his Vice again. To go back to how it had been before the election.

But Wilbur had always been one for making a point. He'd looked at him, after he'd blown the town to smithereens, across the smoking cavity. His face and hair were white with ash and he smiled in a way that made Tommy sick. Whispers came as he looked into Wilbur's cold eyes in that same cruel, sing-song voice.

"This is what would have happened anyway Tommy, if you had been President. I was just speeding things up a little." And then he passed Phil his sword, and Phil stabbed him. Or maybe Wilbur had walked into it. It was hard to tell.

There was lots of shouting, lots of "No!" and "Wilbur!". But Tommy had watched silently. And he knew he shouldn't have thought about it, but he was relieved. As Phil stabbed him, he knew this was how it had to end. How it always was going to end. There was no denying it.

He had acted like Wilbur hadn't changed. Like maybe, if he cracked the right joke or said the right line, the old Wilbur would come back. The one who didn't laugh as if the whole world was on fire, and he was holding the smoking match. Something had snapped inside of him, and Tommy should've known it would never be mended.

It was all a play to him, some great theatrical, where at the end the lights would drop and the curtain would fall, and they would take each other's hands and boy to some huge, imaginary audience. 

And now he was dead. All the politics, the speeches, the betrayals, the war. Wilbur had revelled in it. And now he was dead, dead at the bottom of a pit of his own making.

He screams, short and animalistic. Dragon's breath in the winter air.

"I never wanted this, Wilbur!" His voice breaks, and he knows how lame he sounds. You're such a child, he can hear Wilbur laugh. You're such a fucking child, Tommy. The sun is falling quickly now, and water has flown around a mound of earth at the centre of the hole, turning the crater into a huge black eye. Amongst the dirt and the rubble, Tommy can just make out Wilbur's broken body.

The gasps, the back and forth from Phil and Wilbur, the ringing in his ears. Phil stabbing him. Shouts. Wilbur, stepping backward, feet hanging over the edge of the ridge. And then, falling. The world seemed suspended in time, Wilbur hanging mid-air like a marionette. Screaming. Perhaps it was him.

And then his body met the floor, blood turning the steady stream of water a dark red.

Phil promised they would retrieve it, as soon as they could patch the lake. Will's grey hand lies on against the black dirt, slender fingers stretched towards the sky. Tommy scrunches his eyes shut. Everything's watching him.

"Tommy?" a small voice mutters from behind him. Tommy turns. Tubbo stares at the floor.

He goes to make a joke, but stops himself but thinks better of it at the last second.

"Tubbo," he says quietly. "What's wrong?"

Tubbo looks up at him, his face tear-streaked. "Remember that night when we sat on our bench and we talked about running away?"

"Yeah..." Tommy's eyes slide over him. Blood has seeped through the dressing on his hand. Pale red scars creep down his right arm from Techno's arm. Tubbo notices where he's looking, and tugs the sleeve down self-consciously.

"Tommy, will you run away with me?"  
Tommy stares at the boy, his best friend, the president of L'Manberg. They're so young, too young for any of this. Tubbo's eyes are glassy and dead. He makes no attempt to smile.  
"Are...are you serious?"

"One hundred percent."

He looks back at the city, torn apart from war and explosions.

Tubbo looks back at the floor. "Look, I know I'm the president, and I know I have a responsibility and whatever but..." he looks at Tommy, tears running down his face, "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't." His voice wavers. Something twists inside of Tommy.

He takes his hand and squeezes it.

"I'm sorry," he says again, so quiet he's barely audible.

Tommy takes one last look at his brother's body. The black eye seems to wink at him from the bottom of the crater.

He turns around, looking toward the dying winter sun, and places an arm around the boy's shoulder. "Let's go, Tubbo."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. Somewhere they'll never find us. Somewhere only we know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au pog because i am sad!
> 
> this is BARELY proof-read so if you find anything that makes no sense whatsoever... uh, sorry? i hope you enjoyed, ik my oneshots are a bit weird because not a lot happens in then but i get carried away with describing shit cause i enjoy it so much. 
> 
> that finale was insane. props to wilbur for writing it, i hope he comes back to write more when he's finished on his other projects. i'm really glad dream smp is continuing along with the narrative. 
> 
> i hope you guys are all good. i am, although online school is really fucking testing me rn lol. anyway, have a good christmas :) 
> 
> pear


	4. portrait of a broken man

_Is this the portrait of a broken man that I sought once, long ago:  
Eyes battleworn and glassy, his feathers lying, dead and greying on the ground?  
(What use in them now, when there's nothing left to save?)  
Blood has stained his sword black, and his son lies below in the cavity, sore and smoking.  
He stares vacantly, a cold, lifeless thing. Who would've thought it would be so easy?  
The wanderer holds his sword at arm's length, smarting.  
He has turned his son into a thing._

Look upon this land, this aching mess of grey.  
There's nothing left.   
Nothing.  
They're family. Does anyone remember that, anymore? Will seemed to, as he took his last shaky breath. It wasn't pain, he didn't think. Shock, perhaps, that he'd actually gone through with it. And fear for what comes after.  
He smiled in his last moments, did he mention? Smiled, with deadened eyes. And Phil knew then that they could never have saved him. He had said a little prayer, just in case. Because he was a good lad, really. A bit messed up in the head, but could anyone blame him?   
Had Phil broken him? Was it his fault, all of this? Some petty childhood argument that had taken root and driven him to the brink?  
Tommy stares up at him, silent. His face is hard and blank. He's still holding the sword, he realizes, and drops it, bloody and clanking on the concrete. The boy turns away, walking towards the wooden stairway. _Don't let him leave_ , he thinks. _You can fix this Phil, come on._   
"Tommy," Phil murmurs, as though he was standing next to him, amidst the scrawled lyrics and concrete dust. But he's almost out of sight. There's a sad, clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that says he'll never see him again.   
_They're gone. They're all gone, and I don't know what to do._   
Wilbur was past saving, and Techno doesn't care. But Tommy, loud and aggressive and far too good at getting up in people's business to still be alive, there's still hope for him. Wilbur's blown up his home, Techno's betrayed him, and now his father has killed his own brother in front of him, but there's still hope.   
_Go. Go now, take Tubbo with you, as far away as you can get. Live your life. Be young. God, be young. Fuck up and cut your hair in a stupid style and swear too much and take the mick out of the adults that piss you off. Don't think about war, Tommy. Don't ever think about war._  
_"Stay good," he mutters, suddenly tired. He reaches towards the boy, his son, blonde hair strewn with dirt and blood as he walks down the tunnel and out of sight. "You're the best of us."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE THESE EVEN FUCKING ONESHOTS ANYMORE??????????? i like the poem-y prose thing at the start, but everything after that...yeah idk. i'm at the point in the sleep deprivation where I start referring to the voices in my head as "chat". 
> 
> also exile again? the storyline's so fucking good what!!!! i hope techno gets brought in a little more, ik it would never happen but can u imagine tommy and techno against tubbo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah ok please euthanise me now sentience is a construct anyway
> 
> i have no motivation or attention span to write more than 800 words so!! it's not like anyone is reading this anyway lol. p.s ozymandias is poggers it's so fucking good okay.
> 
> i love you all (carnally)
> 
> pear


	5. the only thing i had left

What do you do once everyone's left?  
There's that heavy feeling in his chest again as he packs up his things, takes one last look at L'Manberg. At the river and the Camarvan and his dumb little house he'd built below Ranboo's the day before. It was meant to be _theirs_. His and Tubbo's. And he knew he had fucked it, that it was his fault, but he had never really thought—fuck, he'd never even imagined that it would end like this.  
_Selfish_. The word tastes bitter on his tongue. Wilbur used to call him it all the time when he was annoyed or jealous or just plain bored. But it had never cut in the way that it did with Tubbo. He hadn't realised that he cared this much.  
And it was true, in a way, that's what hurt the most. He knew he was selfish. But he thought Tubbo understood. He wasn't trying to be malicious, it's just the way he was, the way they were. Him bouncing around like an overwound jack-in-the-box, and Tubbo sighing and following after. He sounded so disappointed. As though he knew this would happen, and he'd let him down anyway.  
All those times on the bench, did they mean nothing to him? All those times Tommy had told him that it was them against the world, the two amigos. _Even before Wilbur, when it was just us_. He'd given him his disc. He'd given him his disc, for fuck's sake. He shoves clothes into his bag angrily, not knowing or caring what he grabs. Tubbo had misinterpreted him—purposely misinterpreted him. To even imply that Tommy didn't care about him—it was unthinkable.  
Wilbur watches the boy silently as he slams his case closed. His features are screwed up beyond recognition, and Wilbur can't tell if he's angry or sad or scared or what. _Is that a ghost thing? Or have I never been good at this sort of stuff?_ He holds a translucent hand up to the light, watching the colours opalesce. Unsure what's going on, he makes to hug his brother, but his hands slips right through his body. Tommy shivers, and turns. He stares at Wilbur for a moment, blank. Wilbur smiles. And then the boy's eyes harden.  
"You," Tommy snarls, rounding on him. "It's all your fault, Wilbur."  
"What, I—"  
"No. Don't fucking speak to me." he spits. "If you hadn't given Tubbo the presidency, this wouldn't be happening right now."  
"Tommy, I told you, I don't remember what Wilbur did. I'm sorry—"  
"I don't give a fuck. I'm so fucking sick of you and your little act, your little 'oh please don't talk about alive Wilbur he makes me sad' and your stupid fucking croaky voice and—and—." He points at Will with a shaking hand, raising his voice in a taunting imitation of the ghost. His eyes are blazing. Tommy has always been easy to anger, but never like this. There's something cruel about it, something primal. "You," he says, voice cracked with hatred. "You took away the only thing I had left."  
He pauses, and Wilbur's eyes widen. He wants to say something, to wrap his arms around his brother and tell him everything will be alright, the way they did when they were younger, when Tommy was terrified of the monsters under the wardrobe. "You still have me," he says, weakly. The boy looks up at him, jaw-clenched and desperate, the same way he looked at him when he told Wilbur that the monsters were going to eat him. Something seems to break inside.  
"No I don't." he whispers. "You left when you decided to blow yourself up along with half my city." He sniffs, straightening up. "Everything I've ever loved, I lost because of you. Schlatt went crazy with power 'cos you decided to hold the election. You put all that TNT under your—under our L'Manberg, and then you went and got yourself killed too. And now Tubbo. Fuck, Wilbur. Fucking hell. You knew I didn't want him to be president because it would pull us apart. You fucking knew. So what do you go and do?" He takes a controlled breath, his whole body shuddering. "Everything. I've ever loved. Just think about that." The boy stares at Wilbur, blue eyes on silver. _He's broken_ , Wilbur thinks. _I've broken him_. And then he stalks out of the room, right through Wilbur.  
Wilbur knows he's being irrational. He knows Tommy's being his usual impulsive, unthinking self, but something sticks in him. _It's all your fault._  
There's something rotten inside him, and it's growing in Tommy, too. And it's his fault, Tommy's right, it's all his fault.  
He follows the boy outside to where Dream stands, watching, the smile of his mask dead and mocking.  
_I'll get him back, Tommy. I swear, if it's the last thing I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell yesterday's stream fucking broke me?? aaaaah this is sad :( tommy always seems to ignore everything wilbur's done in the streams and blame it on techno, idk i think it would be interesting for him to confront will on all the shit that's happened and show him how it's affected him. but idk if i would be able to handle it aha. 
> 
> lots of love,  
> pear xx


	6. i'm nearly over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a small moment at the end of tommy's stream "i'm nearly over", after lazar gived tommy the 13 disc.  
> tw: implications of suicide

“SHUT UP. I HATE YOU.”  
“This is why no one comes to see you.”  
“Shut up. SHUT UP. I CAN'T HEAR YOU.” He sticks his fingers in his ears. He's behaving like a child and he knows it.  
The man raises his eyebrows. “You're going to be alone forever.”  
Tommy takes his fingers out of his ears and takes several long, shaky breaths. He's bent half-double, hands on his knees as though he'd just finished a sprint. A long thread of spit begins to collect below his mouth, but he doesn't wipe it away.  
"Leave" he points a shaking finger to the portal.  
"Tommy, you can’t be serious—"  
"Leave," he repeats, angrier this time. Spit flings onto the grass. Lazar blinks. He's a mess.  
The man sighs and begins to turn away.  
"Wait."  
The voice is small and weak and tired.  
"Can you—can you deliver something for me?"  
Lazar nods. "Sure. What is it?"  
“Wait a sec.” Tommy disappears into his tent, and Lazar hears the familiar hiss and click of an ender chest. He returns holding a small plastic bag. “Be careful with it.” Lazar takes the bag from his hands. Dried yellow spikes peek out of the bag. “It’s Tubbo's fish. I don’t need it anymore.” He smiles limply, but it’s too big and red for his face. Lazar winces.  
They walk back to the portal together in silence. The wind is starting to pick up again, and he can see Tommy’s arms are covered in goosebumps.  
“Tommy?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Don’t do anything stupid, alright?”  
Tommy lets out the ghost of a laugh. His eyes are dead and grey and staring.  
“See you around.”  
Tommy nods.  
The particles swallow him, and he can just make out Tommy’s figure walking away from the portal wearily. _Stay strong kid_ , he thinks. _It’ll be alright_.

*

Tubbo looks inside the bag. "What is this?"  
"Your fish. Tommy said he didn't need it anymore."  
Tubbo eyes widen. His face goes very white. "Tommy," he mutters quietly, stepping backwards.  
"What's wrong?"  
Tubbo starts to run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of really bad but it's mostly me venting :/


	7. to become a ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au: each time dream kills tommy, he loses a bit of his humanity. by the time he leaves the prison, he's little more than a shell. 
> 
> i speedran this after his stream so it's probably messy as fuck, i just wanted to put it up somewhere cause i liked the idea.

“Tommy?” He was more of a ghost than a boy. Tubbo swore if he squinted, he could see the fence through his body.

“Tommy?” The boy barely acknowledged him.

“I thought...I thought you were dead.”

It’s like someone has reached a hand through his chest and ripped the air straight from his lungs. 

“I thought...” He glanced back at Tommy. The boy said nothing. His eyes were dead and black. There was a flicker of something—the corpse of a smile. And then it was gone.

“Tubbo.” 

He said it like a statement. No “Big T!”, no slap on the back, Tubbo wincing and laughing.

“What...Tommy, what happened to you?”

He was staring again. Tubbo turned to where he was looking, but there was nothing. Just the sky, drained and blank. It was like everything had been diluted. Like the colours had been rubbed too hard with a rag. The ghosts of green and blue and yellow.

The silence was choking. He made to sit down on the bench, but the boy shrunk even further into himself. Notch, Tubbo thought. He looks like a fucking skeleton. 

He just wanted to go back a month, when they sat on the bench together the way they always had. When they thought that it could only go up from here, when they still thought they had won. Tommy would let out one of his big sighs and turn to Tubbo and grin, and Tubbo would smile back, like he still couldn’t quite believe that they were both alive. And then they’d listen to Cat, or Blocks, or whatever Tommy deemed important enough for the occasion, and for a moment the world would be right again. They’d watch the sun fall behind the dark trees like a great tangerine scar, and Tommy would always know what to say, because he was Tommy, and Tubbo never would. But it was alright. The world was alright, and it was theirs, and however bad things were, they didn’t loom quite so huge as before.

And even when Tommy ran out of words, when the jukebox fell silent, they’d sit there together anyway. The sky would grow dark, and neither of them would say anything. But it was enough.

They were doing it now. Sitting in silence.

But Tommy looked so wrong on the bench, so much smaller than he ever did. Even after exile, Tubbo thinks, even when he was skin and bone, he was never like this.

Like if you picked him up, he’d fall apart. 

“What happened, Tommy?” he said again, cringing when his voice broke. Normally, Tommy wouldn’t let that sort of thing go. He’d mock him for hours.

Tubbo kind of wished that he would.

Tommy looked at him, and for a moment his eyes were wild and hypnotic with pain.

And then they were dead again, like pieces of dull jet. Like the marbles Tommy would steal from the corner shop when they were six.

Tommy shook his head.

It was like moonwalking. Like someone had slowed down time, and he’d been forced to experience every second as if it was a year. He didn’t know what to feel. Should he be sad? Angry?

Tubbo didn’t know.

He just felt empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to the big bang discord for hyping me up, i love u guys <3
> 
> i doubt anyone is reading this, but if so! after i finish BTRGS i likely won't be posting anything substantial for a while because i'll be working on my big bang fic which i'm super excited for (and also school :/) i'll still be posting ficlets tho <3
> 
> love, pear xx


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